Taste
by Avium
Summary: He hated the taste of blood; he hated tastes in general.


**Taste**

Disclaimers: The Matrix and its sequels belong to Warner Bros and all other legal claimants. This is a fan-created work done without profits being made off the characters' names or the series.

Author: Avium

Rating: G

Fic length: One-shot

Timeline: The Matrix (1st movie)

Author's note: I have an Agent Smith muse that was asking to be written out. It was hard to say "no" with a  Desert Eagle pointed at my forehead, so I relented.

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Taste, he decided, was a rather stupid human sensory faculty. Granted, it was one of the key senses deployed by the ever-curious group of fleshy-hairy mammals known as mankind. But that didn't deprive it from the status of being inconceivably ridiculous. One could live very well without being able to savour the sweet nectar of stale cafeteria coffee, thank you very much. On the other hand, these bumbling creatures were no more self-sufficient than their snivelling young had they been robbed of their ability to see, hear, touch or smell. Evolution was a fickle friend, it seemed – to have blessed these misshaped creatures with such complex cerebrums and yet still hold them captive to a world created by their 5 senses.

One hand slid along the surface of the table, the pads of his finger memorising the cool, smooth texture as he brushed it. Those humans would have looked at the furniture and nodded in polite acknowledgement the beauty and precision of the workmanship. He had thought otherwise: it was the machines that decided what shapes and materials worked better in this fictitious world. The table spelt 'machine-conceived' with its clean angles and clever shaping. 

But what about the material that was used? Pinewood? How terribly un-machine-like. Yet pinewood was chosen not only because it spoke of the gleaming, wondrous green giants that once dotted the landscape on the planet, but also because it was a natural material. It helped to keep up the appearance of an unprocessed Matrix for the feeble-minded souls that dwelled in it. And wood had such a nice, tangy scent as well…

Yes – he noted that he had been generous when he added olfactory perception to the list of survival equipment for the humans. He reasoned with himself quite simply that humans needed it to realise how much they stank; how these ugly, hapless monsters needed their noses so they could live in consist reminder of what they were doing to themselves and their world. Clearly, the brains of these creatures were too wrapped around the false world since he often witnessed them holding their noses while walking past the unsavoury slums. 

To combat the pungent smell of their burning trash and horrendous traffic, men came up with some of the most preposterous cover-ups ever. Aromatherapy was something that he had to send down to the System for further studies – it might shed some light on how rapidly the human mind was digressing.

Such trivial pursuits of the human hordes worked to the System's advantage, however. Not only did it give them a chance to fine-tune the Matrix accordingly, it also helped the masses believe that they were masters of their own Fate, seeing how easy it was for mankind to modify the machine-generated world to suit its needs. 

Fingers trailed to the edge of the table and were yanked back abruptly as they met a strange stickiness, their owner scowling as he indignantly brushed them against his jacket. There were, quite simply, too many sensations to be had in the Matrix. In fact, had it been up to him, he would have done away with the basic 5 channels through which the world was perceived – it would make the Matrix cleaner and more bearable for residing in. Unfortunately, as Fate would have it, such matters rested not in his hands. His job was far duller, but nonetheless "essential" – if he believe what the System told him, of course.

One function and one purpose – no reasons given and no excuses accepted. He had to take the goddamned furniture presented to him, or else; he had to accept the suit presented to him even in the hottest of the dog days, or else; he had to project an intense presence that cowed the morons of the Matrix into submission, or else. If he had the notion, he would have stated in rather explicit terms a demand for the machines to write him a better code, or else. He later found out that limited AI was a mixed blessing – he had no wants and questions otherwise.

Was he happy to have led such a life? In the first place, did happiness account for anything with him? Happiness didn't produce the results desired by the System; happiness didn't write the reports that the System wanted. Happiness was an illusion conceived yet again by those unsightly inhabitants of the city that he worked in, and the Matrix was quite obliging in granting the sorry humans some of this balderdash as it helped them in the law enforcement. Not so much so, he noted smugly, that he was rendered obsolete and deleted.

It was just as well. After all, there were very few job openings for a sentinel program like him. Not to mention the fact that this was probably the only job that offered handguns, shades and immaculate suits delivered to his doorstep. Granted, the attire presented to him looked outdated. But he never questioned the System's fashion sense until much later.

His glanced at his watch as if to check the time. It was purely a decorative act more than anything else; being hardwired to the Matrix meant that he was in a constant state of awareness of everything. Everything that was within the confines of the Matrix, of course.

A drawer was swiftly jerked open, its now useless lock falling and hitting the ground with a dull thud. Peering pass the layer of wood, he came to set eyes on a metallic, rectangular object. He reached into the corner of the drawer, withdrawing his hand as it clamped over the said object. The stained photo frame fitted into the groove of his palm nicely, its weight but a created sensation by the Matrix. An old photograph looked back at him, its subjects beaming and waving to him. Lips curling with disdain, he slammed the photo frame facedown against the hard surface. The sound of shattering glass did little to draw his thoughts away from the uncomfortable fact presented to him – the humans were breeding like rabbits. Would the Matrix deploy more sentinels to combat them? Or will the present group of sentinels be upgraded and left with all the work instead?

He was thinking too much – it wasn't within his programming to do so. But evolution, as I've earlier mentioned, is a fickle friend. The fact that it was within his program to evolve and suit his circumstances probably had a hand in this too, but that was a thought he hardly entertained. At least, while he was still a part of the system of control.

One of his first concerns was that of his outward appearance – he bore shockingly close resemblance to these ape-like creatures. Everything from their naked pink bottoms to their facial expressions. 

The System did its homework well: he could pass for a human.

He had to – there wasn't much of a chance of him passing off as an organic code otherwise.

However, he was glad that unlike humans, he did not have to be programmed to the extent of mimicking their disgusting habits. Leathered soles clicked across the room as he drank in his surroundings, turning his head purposefully as he scanned the layout of the furniture and items in this room. It was evident that the place had been abandoned in haste, but the more interesting question would have been how had the occupants known ahead of time the need to leave their sanctuary? He sidestepped to avoid an open bottle of alcoholic substance, still bleeding its maroon contents over the cheap carpet. Those dirty humans.

"He is not here." Brown's soft voice resounded from the doorway.

He adverted his gaze from the bottle, lips parted slightly and looking as if he was doubtful of what he had just heard from his colleague. Brown's unwavering gaze told otherwise before the sentinel turned his head slowly to survey the room, ignoring the taller sentinel. He did not notice Smith clenching his fist in silent rage, but he had felt his colleague's shifting codes and knew better than to address the changes at that given moment. Smith, he had found out in the most unfortunate manner, was dead good with his gun.

Smith bit his lip – a strange action that meant little to him if anything at all. It was wrong to feel angry – emotions would impair his judgement; emotions would impair his ability to perform his duties. It was also wrong to bite his organic tissue – if there's such a thing. It might have accounted for something with the humans, but to him it was an action that served no purpose. It was a human show of weakness and discomfort – something that he had no need for.

Teeth sliced into willing flesh almost too easily.

He tasted blood on his tongue – a metallic taste of sweet copper snaking along his taste buds. 

He hated the taste of blood; he hated tastes in general.

Brown looked at him, both eyebrows raised as if inquiring his thoughts. All the younger agent received in reply was a piercing glare, its potency muted behind the dark shades. But Brown knew better than to press on with a verbal question – he was reading some of the sentinel's patterns over the network, and the warning red never quite looked so red before.

What would Brown know, Smith reasoned with himself. What would the other sentinels know?

The ability to taste was never granted to a sentinel, even in the process of a code recompilation. Because it served no purpose to them in their line of work. Therefore, there was no way he could expect an inferior agent like Brown to comprehend the range of thoughts running through his mind. He turned his head away from Brown and frowned – blood didn't taste so good. There was nothing in this world that might warrant the need for him to taste anything.

"Shall we trace the line?" Jones' voice broke the silence in the room as the tallest sentinel emerged from the other doorway. 

Both agents turned to face him, expressions deadpan as they awaited an instruction from Smith. Unconsciously he slackened his hold on his inner lip, a small burst of warmth and pain flooding his mouth. The decision to ignore the sensations was made and he reached up to adjust his tie instead – Brown and Jones could study his impeccable attire for all they pleased, as long as they remained unaware of his internal discomfort.

"No. He will be back for the others; he will come right to us soon." 

His unfaltering voice still hinted at the ramrod steel buried deep within himself – the unbending rules of the Matrix that ensured he only had the capacity to do what he was coded for. Whatever anger and rage he felt he did not have the programming to convey in his tone. Perhaps it was for the best, since it would make him appear too human. But he dared not think otherwise – there was no telling when the next recompilation might come in.

The other two agents looked at him and turned to face each other, both appearing to trust his judgement. Brown – having picked up the mannerism of the politicians that he had been assigned to protect on various occasions – nodded in understanding to Smith before making his exit, followed closely by Jones.

Smith surveyed the grimy surroundings one last time before turning away in contempt, reaching up to pull the jacket closer to his body. Unconsciously, his tongue flicked against the healing cut.

He decided to give the flavour of blood a classification. It was salty.

~ End

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Author's notes: I think it's quite evident that this is my first attempt at doing fanfiction for a movie, especially with something as complex as the Matrix. I hope my writing has been to your satisfaction.


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